


Verisimilitude

by evilpinkpen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Crew as Family, Crossover, Drama & Romance, M/M, POV First Person, Permanent Injury, Secret Identity, character fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilpinkpen/pseuds/evilpinkpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard McCoy isn't an honest man, but he used to be better at faking it. He never expected leaving the wizarding community and starting over as someone else - in muggle Starfleet, of all places - to be easy; but until the five-year mission started, it was never quite this hard, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My name, among the muggles, is Leonard Horatio McCoy. It's not the name my parents gave me, but I like to pretend that it's the only one that matters. Since I haven't knowingly spoken to another wizard or witch in over six years, the lie comes easily enough most days. And by the time I set foot on Earth's soil again, the years will have multiplied to more than ten – there are no other magicals on the _Enterprise_.

It brings both pain and relief, this isolation, but it's hardly surprising. When magical folk venture into the muggle world, the magic that runs through their veins tends to have a hate/hate relationship with the electricity that runs through almost everything else. Forced into close quarters, both the wizard and the electronics usually come out worse for it. I can only assume that's why, as the centuries have passed, the magicals have become ever more obsessively determined to stay hidden away in their secret communities, forgotten by the rest of the universe and its vexing technology.

Only the bitter and the desperate abandon that safety for the vagaries of muggle society, where even the simplest magical misstep can see you made a criminal in both muggle and magical eyes. Most who take the risk are criminals already, with that much less to lose.

It should say a mouthful about my state of mind at the time that when _I_ left the magical world, I didn't just run and hide anywhere in its muggle counterpart, but fled all the way to goddamn Starfleet. I wrapped myself in a shield of the most advanced technological "magic" available, and hoped like hell it would keep my past at bay. Merlin, but I was a melodramatic bastard... still, it's worked out for me. Mostly.

But there are moments, like this one, when I look back and wish I'd made different choices. Kept my feet on the ground and my wand in my hand. The fact that they only come when I can't do a damned thing about the impulse – for example, while staring out the viewport that to this day makes me uneasy, thinking back on the first month of a five-year mission into uncharted space – that fact tells me that the feeling is really just self-indulgent bullshit on my part. I'll get over it. I always do.

But until then, it seems that misery has unwanted company.

"What, Jim?" I ask. It comes out testy, but he's too used to that to be deterred. He slings a companionable arm over my shoulders and leans in, close and warm and oblivious.

I seem to have a weakness for emotionally stunted hero-types with martyr complexes. It's depressing, and on days like this it pisses me off, so I shrug out from under his arm and cross my own defensively. After six years of friendship he's mostly immune to my moods, so he just perches himself on the viewport ledge, sprawling back spread-kneed on the narrow platform like he's starring in a porn vid. He's beautiful and I hate him, especially when my glare just gets a sunny smirk in return.

"So, what did space do to earn your disapproval this time, Bones?" he asks conversationally, drawing one knee up and swinging the toes of the other foot like a child, eyes bright, all curiosity and affection. The man was built from light and motion, I swear. It exhausts me just to watch him. It also kind of turns me on.

I scowl, he grins. Stalemate. I turn my eyes back to the deceptively empty landscape that stretches out behind him.

"This is a damn fool thing we're doing, and I'm an even bigger damn fool for going along with it." The declaration would have more weight if it hadn't come out as a resigned mutter, and I grimace. His smile softens into sympathy.

"Having a nostalgic day, huh?" he notes, and I give him a sharp look that I probably shouldn't. For someone completely blind to the obvious, he sees far too much sometimes.

"What can I say, charming away missions like yesterday's tend to have that effect on me," I finally drawl, hiding my wariness behind sarcasm. I'm a long-standing, award-winning expert at sarcasm, but I stick with it because it works – since sarcasm is by definition a second layer of meaning, people almost never look past it for a third.

Jim is certainly still fooled by it. At the least, he lets himself be deflected. "What happened on that planet was _not_ my fault!" he splutters indignantly. The worst of it is, he's telling the truth. Like most heroes, Jim Kirk is a trouble magnet. It stalks him like the Pureblood Wars stalk my nightmares, except with considerably more collateral damage.

I sigh and turn, leaning back to slide slowly down the viewport and settle beside him. The ledge really is uncomfortably narrow, and I have to take the same wide-kneed stance Jim did to keep my ass from slipping straight off. The position pushes us together, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, legs pressed hard against each other for the entire length of our thighs. It's so far beyond casual and friendly that I can't believe he hasn't noticed how I feel about him, but he stays there for almost ten minutes, letting me soak up his light in silence until I remember why I stayed on this madhouse of a ship.

It's still a damn fool mission, though.


	2. Chapter 2

They've noticed, the rest of the crew. Of course they have; this tin can's full of certified geniuses.

Oh, not my unfortunate infatuation with Jim, though they've noticed that, too. Sometimes I think that the CMO's unrequited love for his best friend and captain is the worst kept secret ever ground out by the ship's gossip mill. More than once, I've only just resisted the temptation to smack the knowingly sympathetic or amused look off of some unsuspecting crewman's face. And more than once, I've noticed someone noticing _that_ , as well.

That's the part that worries me. The smartest ones, the ones that are closest to me, have surely picked up on dozens of little contradictions over the years. Like the fact that "I'm a _Doctor_ " McCoy, a vocal pacifist, is actually perpetually (and barely) restraining his own violent inclinations.

It's Carol Marcus who finally calls me on it. New girl's prerogative, I guess. Another month in the black; another away mission gone straight to hell in a gilded handbasket. Everyone's alive and pretty much intact, though it was a damned close thing for Sulu. And it wouldn't have been nearly so close if it weren't for me – if I hadn't hesitated to raise a hand to a sentient, even though a friend's life hung in the balance.

So, of course, now that the danger is past and we're safe in the shuttle, I'm snarling mad and a precarious centimeter from swinging at the next person who speaks to me, especially if it's Spock. And Carol looks me dead in the eye, worn ragged and a little annoyed herself, and says, "They must have hurt you badly."

I glance down at my torn sleeve, startled out of my tantrum. "Nah, it's just a graze."

"I don't mean that," she says impatiently, "I mean whoever beat the shit out of you and hurt you so badly that it left you terrified of inflicting any sort of physical pain on others, no matter how much you want to. And you do want to, don't you? More often than you'd ever admit; I've seen it in your eyes."

It's so silent on the shuttle that I suspect everyone is holding their breath; I know that I am. I let it out slowly, holding her gaze, strung tight as a dragon heartstring. She looks away first, reddening.

"I'm sorry. That was out of line."

"Be hypocritical of me to hold it against you," I say; but even to me, my voice sounds strained.

"I didn't mean..." she trails off, and I sigh.

"They're called hard truths for a reason, Dr. Marcus," I advise her, suddenly feeling very tired and very old. "They tend to bruise when they hit their target." She opens her mouth to reply, probably to apologize again, but I raise my hand, palm out. It's an imperious gesture, one of many I've never quite managed to shake, but it has the desired effect and silences her.

Jim, not so much. "It's all right, you know," he says, leaning forward over his knees. He's so earnest it hurts. And so very wrong.

"No. It really isn't," I tell him, small-voiced and ashamed. They're all avid listeners now; Carol regretfully, Spock with restrained concern, Sulu watching sidelong from the pilot's seat. Jim is pretty obviously fighting the urge to reach for me. I know that if he does, I'll say things I shouldn't.

"Everyone has impulses like that sometimes," Jim tries again. "Resisting the temptation because you don't believe in solving problems with violence is admirable, Bones, not something to be ashamed of." He grins. "It means you're more mature than the rest of us, just like you're always saying."

I'm sure he means it as teasing, but it ends up falling flat and serious. Jim and Spock both look a little ashamed, themselves in the overlong moment that follows. I drag a rough hand down my face, scowling at the turn of events. "You're giving me far too much credit, Jim. Don't." It comes out fierce, and he looks a startled question at me. I hesitate, shoulders hunching instinctively against the words, but in the end I give him a piece of the truth that I've long since owed him.

"I'm not opposed to violence because it doesn't work. Just the opposite. I _know_ it works. It works too well." I look down at my hands, don't remember tangling the fingers together. "With enough pain, you can make almost anyone do almost anything. I've seen it, felt it, done it." The admission sticks in my throat as my agile, dirt- and bloodstained hands keep twisting at each other. "I don't trust _anyone_ with that kind of power. Especially not myself. Not ever again."

I'm afraid to look up when I can't get a read on the silence that follows, but Jim reaches over to gently untangle the knot of my fingers, taking both hands into his own and wordlessly encouraging me to meet his eyes.

"Admirable," he reaffirms, and those eyes shine with unshed tears. The sight shocks me out of my self-recrimination; no one, not even my own mother, has ever cried for my regrets before. I take a hesitant survey; there is no blame or suspicion on any of the faces around me. If there was even surprise, it has already passed. I see nothing but the solemn acknowledgment of a fellow soldier's scars.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that mine may not be the only dark secret on the ship. It's surely not the only hidden hurt. Jim is still holding my hands, and I have to remind myself not to hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, even if my secrets aren't the only painful ones the ship has to offer, they're certainly the strangest, from a muggle perspective. I'm reminded of that the next time I wander up to the bridge to check the wards there.

I know that the crew wonder why their CMO spends so much time loitering in places he really has no business being: the bridge, the shuttle bay, engineering. I cover as best I can; heckling the bridge crew, doing the cognitive retraining exercises prescribed for my aviophobia, shooting the shit with Scottie and Keenser – snide little bugger bears a disturbing resemblance to the few goblins I've interacted with. And while all those excuses have the benefit of actually being true – they're some of my favorite pastimes, barring the aviophobia exercises – that doesn't erase the fact that they remain excuses.

Even if I hated going to the bridge, I'd still have to do it at least once week to accomplish my real purpose: testing and refreshing the wards that I placed there pretty much the moment we shipped out with Jim in the big chair. It's not an optional chore; without the wards between me and the equipment, every chip and fuse in a three meter vicinity would have blown the moment I cast my first spell. When you take into account the fact that I do the vast majority of my spellwork under red-alert conditions, that possibility falls into the category of 'really fucking bad'.

If I was feeling generous, I could admit that this is probably part of the reason why magical law decrees that magicals living as muggles are forbidden to use their magic in a professional context. But I'm not a particularly generous man, and as far as I'm concerned, the law can go to hell. As a fully trained mediwizard as well as a muggle physician, I took two sets of oaths swearing to do everything within my power to ease pain and preserve life. That means that when magic can accomplish those ends better than tech can, magic gets my vote every time.

Oaths aren't things to be taken lightly, after all. I have the scarred remnant of a magical brand on my left forearm, hidden under a perpetual glamour but not forgotten, as a souvenir of that lesson.

Needless to say, I've done magic on the _Enterprise_. Wandless, wordless, high-powered stuff. That means that any place on the ship where there's likely to be a crisis obligating me to do spellwork needs to be warded to hell and back. Top contenders outside of medical itself are – you guessed it – engineering, the shuttles, and the bridge. Hence my current errand.

I follow the usual routine: give and get updates; flirt harmlessly with Nyota or one of the other ladies if the mood seems right; needle Jim or Spock a bit, depending on which of them's being more insufferable at the moment. Then, when the business of the bridge starts washing over my head, as it inevitably does, I let myself fade into the background, shifting my focus to things they can't sense.

I feel along the edge of the wards, bright and strong in my mind's eye. I feel the electricity trapped behind them, too, humming as angrily as a whole swarm of bees in its etheric cage. It sets my teeth on edge.

Electrical energy and magical energy, scientifically undetectable though the latter is, do _not_ get along. They're inimical elements, as the alchemists would say; and on the _Enterprise_ , everywhere except those few critical places where I actively impose my magic, electricity reigns unchallenged. I know that I'm paying a price for surrounding myself with all this unfriendly energy; at the least, it's slowly leeching years off my lifespan. If I stay this course, I doubt I'll live any longer than my muggle colleagues. I'm still deciding how I feel about that fact.

At the worst, when I'm actively attempting to do magic, difficult magic, in such an adverse environment... well, it hurts. Long experience lets me ignore the bone-deep ache and get on with things. I feed my own energy into the wards, shoring them up, reminding them of their purpose, while my magical core practically vibrates with the strain. The two magical artifacts that I keep on me are literally vibrating in response, as they always do; a subtle, high-frequency motion that's only just perceptible to a keen human eye. I can most assuredly feel it, though.

My wand, always tucked into my right boot as a sort of crisis insurance – and I've had to use it twice, though thankfully no one noticed in the chaos – isn't really a problem, cushioned as it is by my sock and trouser leg. The ring anchoring the complex set of spells that disguise my true appearance is another matter, unfortunately. I haven't removed it from the smallest finger of my left hand since I first placed it there six years ago. I can't, as the casting of the glamour was a one-shot deal that will be irrevocably broken if the ring is removed. The ring is charmed into place, and its current oscillations are distracting, to say the least. I absently twist it around my finger, trying with limited success to relieve the discomfort.

"Credit for your thoughts, Doc?" someone asks, seemingly out of nowhere. It's sheer luck that I'm done with the actual wardwork, because I snap back to normal attention hard.

"What makes you think they're worth that much?" I counter automatically, finally orienting myself to the speaker. Sulu grins at me and points toward my hands.

"You always do that when you're thinking deep ones," he says, with the air of someone stating the obvious.

"He's right, Bones," Jim chimes in, amused. "You always seem to be fiddling with your ring when you get your best ideas."

Of course I do – those "deep thoughts" have the benefit of magical insight behind them. I shove both hands in my pockets, scowling. I used to be more self-aware when it came to avoiding tells like that. Drawing attention to the talisman that underlies my entire muggle identity is almost unspeakably careless.

It's a sobering realization, and a sharp reminder of the risk I take if I let myself get too comfortable in Leonard McCoy's skin. I can't afford to buy into my own illusion.

No matter how much I wish that illusion was reality.

I shake my head and move toward the lift doors. "I gotta get back to medical." It's a retreat and a clumsy one at that, and it earns me several puzzled glances. Jim's is tinted with concern. I'm almost gone when Chekov's light voice drifts over my shoulder.

"But, Doctor? What _vere_ you thinking about so hard?"

What, indeed? About lives, I suppose. Magical and muggle, real and fabricated, the thin lines between and the relative values thereof.

I sigh. "Nothing important, kid." The lift doors swish closed between us.


	4. Chapter 4

It's senior staff poker night. I don't much care for the game, despite the fact that I actually play it pretty well; when your day-to-day life is based on weighing odds, making bets, and bluffing your way through the consequences of your choices, well. Safe to say that the activity loses its entertainment value.

Still, it's kind of fun to bet low, fold early, and then watch while the rest go for each other's throats. I have an unofficial standing position as match commentator. And yes, I have been known to misuse that position to manipulate people into reckless mistakes with mockery and misdirection. The practice has been accepted with fairly good grace as a permanent addition to the rulebook of our ongoing tournament, as long as I pick someone different to "assist" each week.

What can I say? I'm still a Slytherin at heart... and I frankly can't afford to let that particular skill set get rusty. I only wish that we could convince Spock to play; _that_ would be an entertaining challenge.

Tonight, though, Nyota's getting pretty pissed off at me. I've put myself in Jim's corner this time, and that always rubs her wrong anyway. But I've also just conned her for the third hand in a row; the look she's giving me over the fan of her cards is sweetly venomous, and I fully expect her to strike back any moment now.

That woman has more than a touch of Slytherin going on, herself. It would be hellaciously sexy if I swung that way. And if her boyfriend wasn't an emotionally unstable Vulcan.

"Your accent bothers me, Leonard," she informs me, her tone tart enough to pucker a lemon. It's so far from what I'm expecting that I actually freeze with the tumbler I'm sipping from only halfway to my lips. I can feel my eyebrow attempting to touch my hairline.

"I beg your pardon?" I say, and yeah, all that disbelief is loaded into the words. Jim snorts.

"I think she just said that you talk funny, Bones," he explains, mock-confidentially, and I shove him hard enough to make him sway. He just laughs. Sulu and Chekov are snickering, too, while Carol hides a smile behind her cards. It's too bad that Scotty is on duty – he'd have had my back, here.

"And what, precisely, is wrong with the way I talk?" I ask frostily, though inside I'm starting to sweat a little. I've wondered for years whether Nyota's keen ears could perceive my subterfuge. In fact, I half expected her to confront me about it long before now. I've always imagined the confrontation taking place more privately, though, and I scowl at her. She frowns back.

"Nothing's _wrong_ with it, per se. But it's not Southern American." My other eyebrow joins the first at high altitude, and she corrects herself. "Well, technically it is," and I'd sure as hell hope so. I put a great deal of time and effort, not to mention a rather expensive language-acquisition potion, into faking Leonard McCoy's speech patterns until they finally took properly. These days I don't have to fake anything; in fact, I rather suspect that I'm stuck with the accent that I've so carefully cultivated whether I want to be or not.

She pushes on despite my obvious skepticism, professional pride making her stubborn now. "But that's not all it is. There's something else, just under the surface." There's an edge of frustration to her words, as though she's been worrying at this particular problem for a while without success. I'm not sure whether that works in my favor or against it, and I'm hurriedly debating the best way to redirect her curiosity when Carol chimes in.

"Have you spent any time in England, Doctor?" At my carefully blank look, she adds, "I've been meaning to ask for a while. The words you use and the way that you phrase things sounds very English, now and again."

"Yes!" Nyota exclaims. "Yes, that's it exactly! And when you're stressed or emotional, it starts to creep into your vowel sounds, too. I can't believe I didn't peg it before now." She grins at Carol, who raises her glass in a return salute, and I have a moment of serious regret for encouraging those two to bond. The accent of wizarding English is nearly identical to the Queen's English, superficially; but some of the sounds have drifted just enough to throw off an expert ear in ways that a layman's wouldn't notice. Carol has bridged that gap for Nyota, it seems.

Meanwhile, Jim is glancing back and forth between me and the ladies, intrigued. "Seriously? I'd noticed that his accent gets stronger when he's freaking out, but I thought that was all it was." I make a face at him, and he smirks. Nyota nods.

"It _does_ get stronger. But that's his secondary accent, not his primary one. The one he usually keeps hidden." She's watching me intently now, eyes bright with a puzzle half-solved. "It's like he has two accents revolving around a core of Federation Standard. One, the Southern one, seems to be naturally faint and unconscious. The other is almost invisible; but I think that's because he's actively suppressing it for some reason..." the words slow until they finally trail off into chagrin. Her sense of discretion has belatedly caught up with her enthusiasm, I suppose. I meet her apologetic look expressionlessly. It's the best I can do with my mind spinning out of control, recalculating probabilities. The silence around the card table is awkward, to say the least, and I give it up as a bad job.

"Yeah, I spent some time in England," I say. "When I was younger." It's an almost criminal understatement, but not _technically_ a lie. There's a long pause as everyone waits for me to continue. I just look back at them blandly, because that's all they're getting. It's all I can afford to give.

Jim snorts again, rolling his eyes. "Please, Bones, stop talking about yourself already. We really can't handle any more melodramatic confessions."

My temper, so carefully restrained against the women's assault, finally snaps. I sprawl back in my chair, legs crossed, arms loose, fingers steepled – the picture of pureblood arrogance.

"Well then, Jim," I drawl, with deceptively bored viciousness, "why don't we all take a turn rehashing our miserable childhoods and misspent youth? We could go in order of rank." I raise a mocking brow in challenge.

The look he gives me in return is complicated, but the top note is wounded. And yeah, I'm ashamed of myself. So what else is new?

The game breaks up after that, and it's safe to say that no one won that last hand.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Jim and Spock shanghai me for a planetside field trip. One of these days, I'm really gonna have to ask Jim what the hell he's thinking when he makes these away mission rosters... and then ask Spock why the hell _he_ lets Jim get away with it.

Today I don't bother, though. It's clear enough from the side-eyed evaluation they're giving me that the mission is simply an excuse for the three of us to have a Talk. Since Spock has been itching to have a go at me over something since even before the mission began – and if Jim didn't agree with him before, he apparently does after last night – you can feel free to color me unsurprised.

Sad to say, it's almost a relief when some of the planet's massive vegetation turns out to be both carnivorous and mobile. And of course, it then chases us into one of the planet's many and unstable cavern systems. Of course, said caverns are only intermittently permeable to such _dependable_ technologies as communicators and transporters. And – of course – our particular cavern chooses that moment to express both its impermeability and its instability.

I may never be surprised again.

Fortunately, no one is injured in the partial cave-in that occurs – they had _better_ not be injured and lying to me, or so help me, as soon as I finish putting them back together I'll personally rip them to shreds – but we're each trapped behind our own little section of rubble. We can hear each other, faintly; the acoustics in the cave are excellent. But the faint glow of my comm-light isn't enough to illuminate a way out, and apparently Jim and Spock are having the same difficulty.

They're holding a shouted strategy session while I pace my stone cell, increasingly agitated. I don't do well in enclosed spaces. Haven't since I was sixteen, disgraced and locked in the dungeons of my own family's cellar with the rest of the Dark Lord's prisoners, my survival contingent on my ability to ensure theirs. That was my place among the Death Eaters, after I proved myself so very inept as a killer and torturer – when things got broken before their purpose was served, they were given to me to fix. Didn't matter if it was tools, artifacts, or people. My usefulness – and my life – depended on making others useful again.

And I was good at it. I was probably the most hastily self-taught handyman and medic in the history of the wizarding world, but I was damned good at it. And even if I still hated myself for my role, now and then – like when I pulled someone back from the brink of death just so that the Dark Lord could force them there all over again – it mostly felt pretty good, too. Fixing things.

But it was also a servant's role, one that ranked barely above the house elves and prisoners that I spent most of my time with. My own father never met my eyes again without sneering. And it taught me that enclosed places – places with no clear escape routes and no space to fight – are not places that I want to be. _That's_ my real problem with shuttles, not that anyone bothered to ask. I'm fine flying on a broomstick; but shove me in a metal box with no easy exits, and yeah, I'm gonna freak out.

I can sense that same feeling creeping up on me now. I try to breathe slowly and systematically relax my muscles and visualize soothing things, just like the damned therapists are always harping at me. And it helps... right up to the moment that Jim and Spock declare that we'll just have to wait for a break in the interference to call for a beam out.

"Oh, _fuck_ no," I mutter, and pull my wand from my boot. I've already reached out with my magic to feel for the safest section of rockfall to clear away, but I don't have nearly as much practice doing wandless offensive spells as I do passive or healing ones. And this spell in particular will need to be carefully calibrated and contained. I widen my stance to steady myself and stretch both arms toward my target area.

" _Reducto_ ," I murmur. With a deafening crack, the stones shatter into gravel. I'm glad I took the precaution of closing my eyes and turning my face away, because I'm forcefully showered with dust and grit from the explosion, controlled though it is. By the time the ringing in my ears clears enough for me to make his words out, Jim's demands for a status report are verging on panicked.

"Fine." I choke on dust and detour into a coughing fit, then try again. "I'm fine, Jim. Part of the rockfall gave way, is all. It looks like it might have cleared an exit, though. I'll check it out."

"Don't, Bones! That's an order! If the section you're in is that unstable, then the last thing you need to do is start wandering around."

Even alone in the dark, I reflexively raise a brow. "Because staying put and cuddling up to those same unstable rocks is so much safer?" I ask, and hope the skepticism makes it across. There's a long pause.

"Spock?" Jim asks. The reply is instantaneous.

"The doctor's estimation of his relative safety is not inaccurate. I would advise vacating the area of the secondary collapse as the wiser course of action." The Vulcan actually sounds mildly concerned, and I feel a pang of regret for worrying them both with false implications. It's quickly overwhelmed by the pressing need to be anywhere but in the damned cave, though.

"Well?" I snap.

"All right," Jim says, and I'm pretty sure that the word comes with a sigh I can't hear. "Just... be careful, okay?"

His concern carries just fine, and it's my turn to sigh. "You're talking to me, not yourself, Jim," I call. "Just hang tight, I'll get us out of here."

And I do. I haven't thrown magic around so freely in forever: _Lumos_ , _Point-Me_ , a couple more _Reductos_ and an _Expulso_ , this time covered by _Silencios_ so that the sound of distant explosions doesn't give Jim and Spock heart failure. A few _Engorgios_ , when things need to be braced rather than blown out of the way. Oh, and that one hurried _Protego_ , when I misjudge the second _Reducto_.

I've missed this so much more than I realized, being able to face the world with my wand in my hand and _all_ of my skills at my disposal. Merlin, it feels good, and I move through that cave with more confidence than I've been able to tap outside of the relative safety of medical in years.

But it's a guilty pleasure that can't last. My comm is crackling even before my eyes register the haze of light filtering in at the cave mouth, and by the time the extraction team greets me outside, my secrets are tucked safely away again.

It's a matter of less than half an hour before Jim is barreling into me, nearly knocking us both over the small boulder I've been perched on in wait. I snark and fuss, and scan both Jim and the hobgoblin for injuries that thankfully aren't there.

Spock stands at patient attention until I've finished, hands clasped behind his back. "Doctor," he begins sternly, as I tuck the tricorder away. I sigh.

"Really, Spock? You're gonna lecture me _now_?" I grumble. The Vulcan is unperturbed.

"I examined the area in which you were initially detained. The secondary rockfall was not a natural occurrence." I blink at him, nonplussed. "I also noted several other points along our exit route which displayed similar characteristics," he continues. "Perhaps you might clarify for me the nature of these observations?"

I scowl at him and look away. "Dammit, Spock; I'm a doctor, not a geologist!" But that's neither an answer nor a denial, not really, and I can't meet his eyes. By the way that Jim's glancing between us with his brow furrowed, I'm pretty sure that this time, for once, he's not going to let the deflection go.

"Please, can we just go home?" I ask plaintively. Jim's eyes go wide, and a moment later, mine do, too.

I've never, not once, not even jokingly, called the _Enterprise_ home. It's not a word that's really in my vocabulary – Jim's either, for that matter. I don't even know what it means that I've used it now, when nightmare images of the last place I called home are still haunting my thoughts, conjured up like inferi by my brief stay in the caverns. When I lift a hand to rub at my gritty eyes, I'm horrified to find it trembling. I shove my hands roughly into my pockets, at a complete loss.

Jim wraps both arms around me, oddly gentle. Spock's protective presence closes in on our six as a comm beeps.

"Three to beam up, Scotty," Jim commands.

My molecules reassemble with their thick coating of dust intact. "I need a shower," I mutter, already striding off of the transporter platform. No one calls me back, but I know better than to believe that this will be the end of it.

It took longer than I had any right to, but it seems I've finally measured myself enough rope to hang by.


	6. Chapter 6

I do spend water credits on an actual shower instead of the sonics, but I don't feel refreshed. If anything, what's left of my energy seems to swirl down the drain with the grime. When I solemnly inspect myself in the washroom's small mirror, the clean blacks I've pulled on make my glamoured complexion look almost as pale as I recall my real one being, and I grimace. I'm pretty sure that I'm being childish, but I decide then that I'm not reporting for this particular debriefing until I'm damn well ordered to.

I settle cross-legged on the bed, my back propped against the headboard, and try not to think. I fail, but that's still how Jim finds me when he lets himself into my quarters however long later – just sitting there in my blacks and bare feet and a bleak expression.

He watches silently from the entryway for a little while. When all I do is watch him right back, his brows knit and he leans down to tug off his boots. He pads across the room in his socks and then crawls up from foot of the bed to settle beside me. It's a maneuver that's featured in countless fantasies of mine; but now, seeing the real thing, all I feel is a sharp, wordless yearning. He slides his arm over my shoulders and tugs, clearly trying to tuck me against his side and chest. Fool that I am, I let him. His heartbeat is strong under my palm, and some unnameable thing inside me relaxes.

"You have a lot of secrets, Bones," he says after a while. The words are quiet and the tone is gentle, but I still feel agitation well up in response. My fist clenches in his tunic reflexively.

"So do you," I point out after a moment. "So does Spock. Hell, sometimes it seems like most of us have pasts we don't want to talk about and skills that we don't want to explain."

"That's true."

"So why am I the only one who's getting poked at and interrogated all the damned time?" I ask. I'm afraid that it will come out sounding petulant and pathetically pleased with myself when I manage a sort of exhausted frustration instead.

"Because you're the only one whose secrets seem to be eating him alive, Bones. And frankly, you've been so careless with them lately that we kind of started to assume you _wanted_ us to call you out."

The words hit me like a _Petrificus Totalus_. Everything freezes, painfully, as my worldview reboots and the rest of me struggles to catch up. Jim is silent again, letting me process, though I dimly feel his hands stroking my hair and back, trying to soothe the tension away.

I appreciate the gesture but I don't think it's going to help, because he's right. He's absolutely right. For weeks now, I've been chafing at my own boundaries and pushing the limits that I'd set for myself. No, even longer than that – I crossed those lines, irrevocably, the day that Jim died and I was willing to burn everything that I'd built here to bring him back. Hell, I was a wand flick from lighting the fuse myself and sitting back to watch it burn.

Fortunately, it didn't quite come to that. Not then. But it was the beginning of the end, because it was the day that I had to accept that I love this man, the one who even now holds me while I silently ride out the mother of all panic attacks. I love him, and my home is where he is. The things and people he values are mine to protect. And everything in me balks at using only half of my skill, half of my experience, and half of my feelings for that task. Despite, or maybe because of, my own indifferent upbringing and marriage, I firmly believe this – your home and family deserve everything you have to give. And if you can't give it, then the next best thing you can give them is your absence.

I've done that before. Just walked away. But it isn't an option here. I have a duty that goes beyond Jim and whatever he is to me, one that I wouldn't willingly abandon even it were easy to do so – which it won't be, not for another four years and eight months.

So, theoretically, my only other option is to give it all and pray for rain to douse the fires. Because Jim has never even indicated that he wants all that Leonard McCoy has to offer. Throw Draco thrice-damned Malfoy into the mix, and I just can't see the situation going anywhere except up in flames. The only question is how much will be salvageable once we're down to the tears and ashes.

Merlin and Morgana, I'm not brave enough to face that. I'm not strong enough to shoulder the responsibility. That's why I chose this half-life in the first place. It's just too bad that I only learned afterward, in muggle physics, that half-lives mark increasing instability in a system, the countdown to complete disintegration. And mine, already a patchwork, may be too far gone for further repairs.

Despite these morbid thoughts I'm actually less tense at this point, having passed from shock to resigned despair. Shivering in Jim's arms and absently smoothing out the wrinkles that my clenched fingers have left in his shirt, I consider moving, giving us both some space for whatever comes next, but I'm too selfish. So many nights I dream of comfort, of a non-clinical human touch. Of Jim's touch. And if this is going to be my only chance to be held like this, by him, I'll be damned if I'm the one who moves first.

Jim himself seems perfectly comfortable where he is, so I indulge the impulse. I lie there against him and pretend that we're both here for the simple pleasure of it, that there's nowhere else we need to be and nothing we need to worry ourselves about.

It almost works. For a little while.


	7. Chapter 7

"You're thinking more quietly," Jim notes, maybe an hour later. I shrug, but I'm so heartsore and tired that even that small motion feels like effort.

"I don't have any answers for the questions you want to ask me," I admit. I've never heard myself sound so defeated, not as Leonard McCoy, and it galls me. It must have a similar effect on Jim, because his arms tighten around me. "I can't even answer my own questions, really. I'm sorry."

"And how can you be so sure that you know what I want to ask you?" Jim asks. One of his hands is curled around the back of my neck, and he tugs gently on the short hairs at my nape in emphasis. "Maybe I don't have any questions, not really. Maybe I just want to meet the part of you that you keep chained up so tight inside. You know – the violent, high-toned English part with its mysterious repertoire of tricks and miracles."

I sigh. "You'd definitely have questions, then. That part's nothing but trouble."

Jim chuckles so softly that I mostly just feel it where I'm still pressed against his chest. "So, basically, it fits right in with the rest of you. Not to mention the rest of us."

I want to smile, but the expression won't quite form. I should meet his eyes for these next, important questions. But that would mean breaking the cocoon of safety he's built for me here, and I still feel too fragile. I can sense the moth-wing brush of enchantment in this place, this moment, and I'm no longer arrogant enough to dismiss such a gift. Just maybe, if respected, it will bring us both through this conversation intact.

"Jim," I say, and he goes still. He feels something too, then; that our next words have power, if nothing else. "What if I wasn't who you think I am?"

He pauses, taking the question at face value. "That's covering a lot of ground, Bones. I think you're a lot of things. A brilliant officer, a devoted friend, a compassionate observer. And before and above all that, the best damned doctor in the fleet and a healer all the way down to your bones." I can hear the grin in his voice as he appreciates his own pun, and I roll my eyes. "I felt that," he says. "And, by the way, you're also a sarcastic bastard with a defensive streak nearly as wide as the alpha quadrant and a tongue that's almost as sharp as your hands are gentle. You contradict yourself, you confuse the hell out of people, and you enjoy doing it. And yet, those same people still have absolute faith that they can count on you when the shit goes down. And they're right." Jim strokes a hand down my arm to tangle our fingers together. "You can't hold a civil conversation before your second cup of coffee, though I note that you _can_ perform brain surgery under the same conditions..."

"Priorities," I inform him primly, and he chuckles again.

"That's who I think you are, Bones, even if it barely scratches the surface. Are you telling me I'm wrong?"

"No, you aren't wrong," I admit. Merlin, why does this have to be so hard?

"Then what are you trying to tell me?" he presses.

I take a deep breath and try again. "What if I wasn't _what_ you think I am? If my name, my appearance, my... nature, I suppose, weren't what you've been led to believe?"

He's silent for several moments. I think he might be doing the same thing that I am: staring at our clasped hands, comparing their lines. They're a good fit; both broad-palmed and long-fingered, strong but still agile. His are a bit slimmer, the skin a bit fairer. Now, anyway. I know that, without the glamour, the opposite is true. I can't help but wonder, and fear, how Jim might feel about that.

"I think," he finally says, careful, measured, "that I fell in love with who you are, not what you are. As long as the who is real, the what is really just details."

I don't realize I've stopped breathing until I have to inhale sharply in order to speak again. "You know, most people consider them pretty damned important details. Especially once they start throwing big words like 'love' around."

"What, no flowery declaration of reciprocal feelings?" Jim teases. "I mean, not that I hadn't already noticed, but who doesn't like flowers?"

"I'd like to say that I noticed you noticing; but, nope, sure didn't. What the hell, Jim? You just left me hanging, assuming that I was alone in this emotional bullshit!"

Jim laughs out loud this time, shifting subtly so that we're full-body cuddling, pressed as close to each other as our clothing will allow. It lets him finally meet my eyes, and his expression sobers quickly.

"I wasn't trying to string you along, Bones. It's just that you give such mixed signals. You clearly want to be touched, but most of the time it seems to make you uncomfortable when you are. You open up to people one day, then stonewall them the next. For a few moments you'll seem happy. With our lives, our jobs. With _us_. Then the next, you hate everything and everyone." Jim presses a kiss to my temple. "Especially yourself. It worries me. I can't tell what you want, what you need. So I held back." He looks at me very seriously. "Do I need to apologize for that?"

I sigh, irritated, but not at him. "No. You made the smart choice. I doubt I'd've handled this conversation half so well, before now. And the conversation had to come before... anything else."

"Why?" he asks, bright-eyed with curiosity and pinched with concern. It's an oddly adorable combination, and I give in to the urge to smooth my fingertips over the line it etches between his brows.

"Afraid there's another important question to consider, first." He nods, wary now. "What if I wasn't what _Starfleet_ thinks I am?" He takes a sharp breath of his own and holds it for a moment, thoughts moving rapidly behind his eyes.

"That is... potentially more complicated," he admits, frowning. He meets my eyes intently. "But Bones, we have a _lot_ of leverage built up with the brass. More than any of us realizes, probably, once we all put our heads together. Whatever this is, we _will_ find a way to make it right for you." He's so fierce in this cavalier promise that it stuns me, catching my breath in my throat as I watch those blue eyes burn.

"I believe you, Jim," I whisper. Merlin preserve me, I do. "But... how? How can you be so sure that you, that _anyone_ , will feel that way? Once they know the truth? You don't even know..."

"We know _you_ ," he interrupts, sliding his hand down to my jaw and leaning in to kiss my mouth for the first time. It's light, even chaste, but the barely restrained intensity behind it makes my lips tingle and my breath come short regardless. "I know you. And that's more than enough."

I'm half in a daze as we silently negotiate the positions of pillows and blankets. It seems that Jim won't be returning to his own quarters tonight; a suspicion confirmed when he calls the lights down and tugs me back against him again.

I fully expect to lie there stiffly and fret all night. Instead, I'm asleep within minutes. Jim is still spooned behind me by the middle of gamma shift, when Spock's voice over the comm wakes us both.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Very) minor borrowing from the plot of Ent S.1 ep. Acquisition in this chapter. Also, violence and maiming ahoy.

If Spock has an opinion about paging the CMO's quarters for his Captain in the dark hours of the morning, he gives no indication of it as I trail Jim's shadow into one of engineering's containment chambers.

"Captain. Doctor," he intones. His version of a greeting, characteristically laconic.

"Morning, lads!" Scotty chirps, considerably more chipper and quite clearly awake for some time. I lift my eyes to the ceiling and silently beg for patience.

"Gentlemen!" Jim replies, nearly as enthused. "What have we got here?" He strides through the room to stand behind Scotty and peer over his shoulder at the metallic cylinder that we've apparently retrieved from the vacuum. It's only a little larger than a fire hydrant, and it looks small and harmless in the otherwise empty space of the cavernous bunker. I don't want to get anywhere near it.

"This is the object that was broadcasting the distress signal we received," Spock reports. "However, there was no evidence of a ship or escape pod in its vicinity."

"No debris, either? No material evidence to give us a clue to its origins?" Jim is circling the cylinder now, gaze and voice intent.

"None, Captain. The region from which we retrieved the object was quite empty," Spock confirms, and I get the impression that he, too, is more intrigued than annoyed by the prospect of a mystery.

"Its composition is remarkable, sir," Scotty adds, nearly giddy with excitement. "I've only been able to identify about half of the materials it contains, so far."

I feel a definite spike of concern. "Should we really be breaking quarantine, then?" I ask. I get three bemused looks in return.

"The object was thoroughly scanned before retrieval, and all applicable decontamination protocols have been followed," Spock informs me, one brow twitching ever so slightly. "Now that its transmitter has deactivated, I can assure you that the object is quite inert."

I repress an incredulous snort. Inert, huh? Sure. Which would explain why this thing is practically oozing malevolence.

For the first time in a long time, the word _muggles_ rings with scorn in my mind.

Jim, magpie that he is, chooses that moment to reach for the shiny new toy. I accelerate from uneasy to panicked in the span of a heartbeat. "Dammit, Jim, _don't_ – "

Too late. Whatever toxin the freaking _inert_ cylinder releases at his touch is colorless, odorless, undetectable. It's a trick as old as goddamn Troy, and yet we're still falling for it. Literally; we all drop where we stand like unstrung marionettes.

The toxin must be as undetectable to the ship's sensors as it is to my merely human ones, because no one comes rushing to the rescue. No alarms blare, no emergency airlocks hiss into place. The litany of horrific accidents that could result from crewmen falling helpless at their tasks makes for a grim mental recitation, and I try to focus myself by analyzing the drug's effects instead.

It's definitely a paralytic of some sort, but a disturbingly restricted one. I can breathe, blink, and swallow just fine. Bowel and bladder control are also intact, and thank Merlin for small mercies. My mind feels perfectly clear, my perceptions normal. Major voluntary muscle control is a no-go, though; _Petrificus Totalus_ in aerosol form.

That means that when I hear the unmistakable sound of a small ship docking with the _Enterprise,_ hear what must be its occupants making their rowdy way through the corridors toward us, there's not a damned thing I can do but wait for them with my heart in my throat and my pulse pounding in my ears.

When they appear, they're no species I recognize. The size of smallish humans, they have large, bald heads, huge ears, ruddy skin, and disconcertingly sharp teeth. The four of them have evidently spoken amongst themselves enough for the shipwide UT to get a lock on their language, though, because I can understand them just fine.

"Ah, here she is," the largest one says with fond spite. "Our lovely Scout." He caresses the cylinder absently, gesturing two of his companions over. "Take her back to the ship, then get to collecting our loot. How much time do we have?" he asks, turning to the fourth intruder. _Pirates_ , I think, disgusted.

The fourth, who's been leaning over me with some sort of handheld scanner, cracks the most terrifying grin I've seen since crazy Aunt Bella went down. My heart sinks. "No rush, Boss. The stun gas is holding; they'll be immobile for hours. But you'll be interested to hear," that horrible grin widens impossibly farther, "that they're fully conscious and aware of what's happening to them."

"Really?" Boss asks, stretching the word into a mockery. He walks over to stare down at me as well, nudging me none-to-gently in the ribs with his boot to punctuate the inquiry. I glare up at him as best I can, and he gives what I suppose would be a delighted laugh if it weren't sodden with malice. "What an interesting side effect. We'll have to experiment further with this particular formulation."

"Does that mean that we can play with them, Boss?" one of the others asks, bright with twisted anticipation.

"Just don't damage the merchandise irreparably," Boss replies carelessly, and my heart sinks even lower as the two he'd indicated pick up the cylinder and exit, chattering gleefully. Not just pirates, then, but sadists. I'm entirely too familiar with the type, and the thought of the hours-long reign of terror that they intend to unleash here – on my home, my _family,_ the people I care for held in frozen horror while atrocities are enacted upon their helpless forms – it shreds my guts. It damned near shreds my mind. I really don't think my sanity can survive standing witness to such meaningless destruction yet again, and a desperate moan tears itself from my throat.

It draws Boss and Four's wandering attention back toward me. "What's this?" Boss asks, stepping indifferently on my outflung hand. My _left_ hand. If my heart could sink any further, it would be halfway through the deck plating by now. As it is, I feel myself going numb, all the clamoring, fever-pitched emotions overwhelming my capacity to process them. Four pokes at his scanner again.

"The band is pure gold, Boss. The stone is strange, though. I can't identify it." And just like that, I know what's coming. I can't stop it. I may not survive containing it. But in that moment I swear, on Merlin and Morgana and on every bloody deity who ever fucked mankind over, that none of my crewmen are going to suffer for my mistake.

Boss hums in vague interest. "Take it," he orders, turning to go. Four tugs at the ring, viciously, bruising the knuckle and tearing skin.

"It won't come off!" he complains, and Boss pauses in the doorway.

"So?" he says over his shoulder, darkly amused, and Four's gremlin grin reappears. He makes sure I can see the knife, a wicked, saw-toothed thing, and seems disappointed by my lack of reaction. But there's no room for fear. There's no room for pain, when that comes. I have moments, mere heartbeats, to gather everything I have, everything I am, in preparation.

Flesh gives way and reality implodes. There's nothing but magic, wild magic, violently freed from all constraints, all purpose, all conscience.

I grasp it and burn.


	9. Chapter 9

So much magic, to be sealed into such a small space. Enough to alter both form and perception, seamlessly, perpetually; a disguise to fool both muggle and magical eyes. Not a single spell but many, delicately and intricately woven together in a spider web of power anchored irrevocably to the ring and its wearer. When those anchor threads are cut so literally and haphazardly there is no safety valve, no alternate cistern for the circulating magic to flow into. The result is a maelstrom, a storm surge of pure magic with nowhere to go but explosively, devastatingly outward.

I didn't anticipate this possibility when I designed the glamour, and now I'm hellbound to compensate for my lack of foresight. I buy a precious moment by drawing the magic back into myself, but I can't keep it there. It slams through my own magic, almost immediately overwhelming my capacity to hold it. My only choice is to redirect the power, but there's no time to formulate an actual thought. It flies like an arrow from a blind-shot bow, directed only by impulse.

I pray that I'm a better man than I fear I am.

I have no idea how long I lie there afterward, gasping and shivering, eyes and mind both whited out. Long enough for most of my body heat to seep into the deck plating, accelerating an already dangerous flirtation with shock. As my vision creeps back, I note that there is no sign of the drama that just played out. Pirate, knife, finger, ring; all seem to have vanished. There is no blood, no scorch marks darkening the pristine steel and plastic of the _Enterprise_. It might have been an elaborate hallucination, if not for the pain beginning to make itself known.

I finally push myself to a sitting position, nearly going down again when agony radiates from my hand. I lift it for grim inspection, blinking my eyes against an encroaching gray haze. The fifth finger is gone, of course, the stump messily cauterized, burns stretching over most of rest of the hand. The skin that they mar is so pale it's nearly translucent, and I have to cuff my overlong sleeve to keep it from hanging all the way to my remaining fingers and irritating the burns further. I sob a laugh, and rough as it is it's obvious the sound is lighter than it should be, tenor instead of baritone. My secrets have told themselves, and done their damnedest to ruin me in the process.

I shakily fumble in my now too-large boot for my wand, even my uninjured right hand barely competent to the task. Magical healing is out of the question; I can't recall the necessary incantations to my increasingly fuzzy thoughts.

" _Accio_ medkit," I mutter. The incantation is hoarse, the wand flick a bare suggestion of motion. If the kit wasn't nearby in a location precisely known to me, I doubt it would have worked at all. As it is, the case hits the floor with a jarring clatter and skids the last few feet. The anti-shock hypo is followed by an epinephrine chaser that I'm going to pay for later; but I need my feet under me and my wits about me, and I need them five minutes ago. By the time my maimed hand is loosely bandaged, the painkiller has kicked in and my breathing is more regular, my head relatively clear. I still have no idea what to do now, but the first step is probably ascertaining what the hell I've already done.

Bracing myself, I lift my head and survey the whole area for the first time. It's indeed as pristine as my initial impression, save for the three bodies sprawled across it. All three are patently alive, chests rising and falling, eyes blinking at me frantically, and I nearly sob again in relief.

All three have also, against all odds, fallen in such a way as to have a clear view in my direction. Whatever just happened, they saw the whole thing. I close my eyes and take a bracing breath, but I find that I don't want to delay any longer.

I just want this over with.

I end up having to kick my hopeless boots off and cuff my trousers before I can cross the few yards that separate me from Jim. I need to tighten my belt, as well, but it can wait. Jim can't.

His eyes widen hugely as I approach, muscles spasming all over his body as it fails to cooperate in flinching away from me, and I freeze where I stand. His fear is the most painful thing I've experienced during this entire fucked-up interlude.

"It's me, Jim," I rasp, unfamiliar tenor still wrecked with pain and wild magic. "It... it's just me. I'm sorry, I'm so goddamn sorry." I swallow hard past the tightness in my throat and indicate the tricorder in my good hand, taking care to move slowly and stay in his field of vision. "I just want to make sure you're okay, yeah?"

He visibly relaxes as I speak, so I cautiously complete my approach and kneel beside him. I scan him with a hand that isn't as steady as it needs to be, wanting desperately to touch him and not at all sure it would be welcome. "You're gonna be fine," I finally announce, voice even rougher with relief. "No sign of the paralytic, whatever the hell it is, but there's every indication that it's nearly run its course. Should have motor control back within the hour. Nothing broken when you fell, either." Some bruising, though, and there's no way he's comfortable, given the way he landed. I hesitate a moment, then carefully proceed to rearrange his tangled limbs.

His gaze has been roaming restlessly over me the entire time, and as I make to stand again he forces a worried interrogative noise from his throat. "Don't push your muscles before they're ready to respond, Jim, you'll only regret it later," I mutter, knowing it's a lost cause. He gives me a Look in response. I try to smile at him and almost certainly fail. "I'm well enough. If that's what you're asking." I'm pretty sure the answering flash in his eyes is concern, but I turn away from it.

I repeat the process with Spock and Scotty. Spock's gaze is speculative when it meets mine, Scotty's almost manically curious, and without anyone saying a word I already feel like a specimen under a microscope. I turn away from them all, whipcord tense.

"You're all gonna be fine." I say it like a mantra. "Spock should be back on his feet any time now, really. Big damned surprise there, right?" I cut off the incipient rambling. "I'm gonna go check on... well, on fucking everything." My hunched shoulders drop heavily, guilt and fear coming to weigh on them.

I stumble out into the corridor, a pathetic, barefoot figure in an outsized uniform, bandaged hand clutched to my chest, med kit and wand clenched in the other. The halls are littered with crewmen affected by the paralytic; the ones who are able to meet my eyes do so with confusion and fear, breaking my heart a little more with each encounter. I pause briefly to check every body I pass for life signs and injuries, but my real target is the master terminal on the other side of the deck, in Scotty's office. For a miracle, it accepts my access code despite my altered, barely present voice.

The miracles come fast and thick after that. Bioscans report no fatalities, no missing crewmen, no indicators of serious injury aside from mine. The ship is stable and structurally intact. There is no evidence at all suggesting the maelstrom of wild magic that I nearly unleashed. The pirates, and their vessel, are gone without a trace.

I step away from the console, light-headed from pain, exhaustion, and the sickening emotional collision of fierce relief and utter terror.

What have I done? What has my flash flood of magic left in its wake? I still can't tell.

I reach blindly behind me for Scotty's desk chair, miss, and sink to the floor, utterly spent. Knees drawn up to my chest, maimed hand throbbing with my overwrought pulse, I can feel consciousness slipping away from me.

I don't fight it.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm sitting on the floor of a massive, cluttered chamber, propped against the spindly frame of a Louis XVI style sofa upholstered in moth-eaten silk. It ought to be awe-inspiring, this place; a wonderland of the forgotten and discarded. It isn't. I find it as oppressive as ever, this room that no longer exists.

The boy sitting a few yards away from me no longer exists, either. He, too, is well on the way to being forgotten and discarded. Not that he's realized it, of course. He can't comprehend the full, horrible truth of his situation, not yet; but the first awful suspicions have finally made themselves known.

He sits with his back to an odd, triangular cabinet. Its dark wood is badly scuffed, its elaborate brasswork tarnished. His pallid face is streaked with dust and tears, and he seems indifferent to the state of his expensive suit as he draws his right knee to his chest, stirring fresh dust from the floor. His left arm is extended along the other leg, sleeve dragged up to expose an ominous black tattoo on the pale, tender skin. He stares at it, through it, with eyes as bleak as a winter tundra.

I've mirrored his position without even noticing it. I'm wearing Leonard McCoy's body, probably for the last time; the tall frame and broad shoulders are curled defensively over my knee, clothed in a Starfleet uniform that's immaculate save for its own gray furring of dust. My attention drifts erratically between the oblivious teenager and my own left arm, with its intact hand and tanned, unmarked skin.

I should be surprised when a warm, familiar body settles beside mine, the hand that drops onto my shoulder slowly tracing the same path as my eyes until it rests comfortingly on the bare skin of my forearm. I should be, but I'm not—as though his appearance here is simply part of the natural progression of things.

"Jim," I murmur.

"Bones," he replies, just as softly. Then, "That's you, isn't it? The boy."

I shrug. "Just a memory."

"Not a happy one, by the looks of it." His fingertips trail a gentle line from wrist to elbow and back again. Petting. Soothing. For whatever strange reason, it helps.

"He's just realized that he's in so far over his head, he doesn't even know which way the surface is anymore," I explain tiredly. I give the boy I used to be one last, long look, then turn away. "Damned fool."

Jim's expression is opaque, despite my years of practice in reading him. It makes me uneasy, and I pull away from him, rising and tugging my sleeves back into place. He follows me to a standing position unhurriedly, his eyes never leaving my face.

"What's your name?" he asks, too quietly.

"Leonard McCoy," I snap, nettled.

He nods slowly, a familiar, stubborn glint in his eyes. "Fine. What's _his_ name?" He gestures to the teenager on the floor.

I follow the gesture with my eyes, letting them rest again on the pale, pathetic figure, my jaw clenching painfully as anger wars with despair.

"Malfoy," I finally grate out, eyes burning as I drag them back upward. "His name is Draco Malfoy."

Jim nods again, thoughts shifting and twisting like koi beneath the surface of those baby blues. I can't guess at the shape of them. I'm almost afraid to try.

"That's not how you think of yourself," he observes, the words oddly hesitant, like he's working through them even as he speaks.

I shake my head tiredly. "No. Not for a long time, now."

He nods a third time before pausing momentarily, then steps forward to close the small distance between us. "And this?" he asks, reaching out to cup my jawline, thumb brushing a caress over my cheekbone. "Even in the privacy of your own mind, you hide behind a disguise?"

I can't resist leaning into the touch, just for a second, before I pull away and step back. "It's a personal preference." The corner of my mouth tips upward humorlessly. "One that I suppose I'll have to get over."

"Hey, if you want to keep hiding from everyone, don't let me stop you." He twists his own expressive mouth into a sneer, making a poor attempt to cloak his hurt at what he's obviously interpreted as a rejection. I laugh, and it has a frightening edge of hysteria to it.

"Not everything's about _you_ , Jim; though Merlin knows it must seem that way to both of us, sometimes." I drag a rough hand through my hair. "The disguise can't be recreated; it was tied to the ring," I admit, and he winces. I try and fail to keep the frustration out of my voice as I continue. "Hell, Jim, just last night I was trying to feel my way toward even _beginning_ to explain everything to you. Then next thing we know, the whole secret comes out in the worst way possible, and suddenly I've got to explain it all from the ass-end backward instead. Forgive me if I need a little breathing space to figure out how to do that!"

"Is _that_ why you won't wake up?" Jim asks incredulously. "Because you need _space_?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snarl back. Something else occurs to me. "Wait, why are you traipsing around in my head in the first place? Hell, _how_ are you traipsing around in my head?"

Jim looks as uneasy as I feel for a moment, though it's quickly papered over. "Spock is bridging our minds. It's like a meld, except that he's only serving as a conduit for the two of us."

I look at him in blank shock. "I didn't even know that was possible. How the hell...?"

Jim shrugs too nonchalantly. "Apparently it's an advanced technique, one not used very often."

I translate this from Jim-speak and groan, jamming my fingertips against my suddenly throbbing temples. "And just how big a risk are you both taking with this half-cocked idea?" I growl, shaken as I always am by his recklessness. "Lord and Lady, Jim, why do you keep doing this shit to me?"

He darts forward and grabs both of my wrists, dragging our faces close. "I'm doing this _for_ you, you stubborn asshole!" he snaps. "You've been comatose for three fucking days, Bones! Do you have _any_ idea..." he trails off, regarding me closely. My previous shock is nothing compared to what I feel in the wake of this new revelation. His grip gentles. "You didn't know."

I shake my head mutely, and he sighs before pulling me into a strong embrace. "Shit, Bones." He laughs, but the sound is fragile. "What are we gonna do with each other?"

"Fucked if I know," I say in little more than a hoarse whisper. "Three _days_?"

He pulls back just far enough to regard me solemnly. "Yeah. Your hand isn't healing, either, but we can't figure out _why_. M'benga's completely baffled."

I step back again, though I don't try to dislodge his loose hold on my wrists. My thoughts tumble like dominoes and I follow their trail distractedly. "The hand doesn't surprise me, but why..." Jim gives me a questioning look that I dismiss with a sharp headshake. "Let me _think_ , Jim." He subsides with surprising grace.

I close my eyes, letting ideas swarm and drift as they will, until one in particular jangles my instincts. I inspect it, remembering far too clearly the horrible pain that ripped through me when the wild magic tore free and the inexpressible exhaustion that followed. I analyze for the first time the strange, gnawing hollowness that's haunted me ever since I found myself in this non-place. I correlate, I diagnose, and I come to a far from comforting conclusion.

"Dammit," I mutter, opening my eyes to meet Jim's grimly. "I think I know what's wrong."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "bridging of minds" technique is borrowed from the Voy S.6 ep. Unimatrix Zero.


	11. Chapter 11

The Room of Hidden Things fades while I'm lost in thought, leaving Jim and I standing in a dark, foggy space that defies any sense of direction. Strange blurs tease the edges of my vision, streaming by like pastel warp trails; I suspect that they're memories. Ideas. My mind is an even busier place than I'd realized, if so.

Jim draws back an outstretched arm when I speak, clearly startled. I'm pretty sure he's been trying to touch one of the passing thoughts, and it makes me smile. He smiles back, a little sheepish, before we both go solemn.

"So?" he asks, watching me closely again. "What's the prognosis?" I hesitate too long in answering, and his expression runs a dizzying emotional circuit from anticipation to helplessness into anger and, finally, desperation.

"Don't you dare tell me you can't answer, Bones," he snaps, though it sounds more like a plea than a demand. "Don't you fucking _dare_."

I fumble for a response, more torn than I've ever been in my far from simple life. The thought-trails whip themselves into a frenzy around us, accelerating into a wall of white light, trapping us at the epicenter. Jim's fists are clenched at his sides, veins and tendons standing out in strain; his color is high from the effort of restraining at least half a dozen impulses that I can see at war in his eyes.

He's angry at me. At himself, too, unless I miss my guess. Afraid; though thankfully for rather than of me. I can tell by the way he's fighting to hold himself back, to stay out of my space; though whether he'd move forward to shake me or embrace me is clearly still a coin toss. And so much more, so many layers. I can't parse it all.

"What are you thinking, Jim?" I ask, and my voice is calm despite the evidence of my own thoughts giving the lie to it all around us. "What are you _really_ thinking?"

I can practically see the flippant response in his expression before something in mine makes him swallow it back. He stares at me for a long moment, fighting against his own ragged breathing, visibly forcing his muscles to relax.

"I'm thinking that I've never been as afraid of anything in my life as I am of losing you," he finally says, his voice almost breaking with strain at the end. "Please, Bones, don't do that to me. Don't make me face something that you couldn't face, yourself."

His answer hits me like a punch in the gut. I realize belatedly that I'm shaking my head, though it's less a negation than a sheer refusal; as though the words are physical objects that I can shake away, brush off. "It's not the same thing, Jim," I eventually manage, my voice faint.

"Why not?" he challenges.

"It just _isn't_ ," I snap. I turn sharply away, burying my face in my hands. It muffles my next, plaintive words. "You're so much stronger than I am. You would survive it."

There are no shadows or footfalls in this place to warn me of his approach, making it seem as though he's just suddenly there at my side. One hand smooths over my hair as the other gently tugs at my fingers, pulling my own hands away so he can look me in the eye. I recognize the glint in his immediately; it's the look he gets when he's committed himself to some reckless, brilliant course of action that's sure to terrify and thrill me in equal parts.

"Yeah, I'd survive. But surviving isn't living, and we both know it." He shifts both hands to frame my face. "Don't ask me to _live_ without you, Bones. It won't happen." He's at his most elemental in that moment, bold and intense and too sincere to even mock, flawless in his imperfections; and the next thing I know, my face is tucked against the curve of his neck as I laugh so hard I can barely keep myself upright. It's a genuine laugh, though, with none of the hysteria from earlier, and when I pull away enough to wipe tears of mirth from my eyes, there's a smile playing around his lips as well.

"That was somehow funny?" he asks, bemused.

I shake my head. "No, no; that was..." I brush a kiss over his knuckles, at a loss for an appropriate adjective, and his breath catches. "The fact that I somehow managed to end up with a goddamned Gryffindor after all, though— _that_ is funny."

His expression of baffled relief is priceless. "Still not getting it," he admits.

I squeeze the hand I'm still holding. "I'll explain later. Just add it to the list."

He looks at me with wary hope. "What's the plan, then, Doctor?"

I take a deep breath. "First, I'm going to show you something. Then, we're going to wake up. _Both_ of us."

His eyes clear like sunlight through spring water, and a wide grin breaks over his face. "Damn straight," he says. He tugs at my hand. "Show me." His trust is utter, absolute, and I've never been so terrified or so sure. The cyclone of thoughts surrounding us slows, stills, crystallizes.

This is the right choice. Of course, that means it isn't the easy one.

For this one moment, I don't care.


	12. Chapter 12

We step from darkness into a thoroughly nondescript muggle motel room. The lines and colors of the memory reflect that, dull and blurred, but I know that it's less the fault of the decor itself than the fact that the man sitting on the edge of the double bed simply wasn't paying attention. He had nothing on his mind but himself in those bleak days between the wizarding world and Starfleet. The person who almost single-handedly changed that is still standing beside me, attention flitting between me and the memory with cautious curiosity.

"He's not aware of us, is he?" Jim asks quietly, and I shake my head.

"No more than the other one was. They're not really here." I gesture hesitantly at the seated figure. "This is Draco Malfoy, the very last time I saw him. In a few minutes, he's going to put on that ring and become Leonard McCoy in fact as well as on record."

"You established the identity before you began living it full time?"

"It's the name my medical degree is issued under." I shrug. "That was the only way I could legitimately practice and publish."

"Another explanation that I need to add to the list, I take it?" Jim says wryly, and I shrug again, embarrassed.

"It's a long story. We don't have the time." Jim sobers at this reminder, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Why are we here, then?" I place my hand over his and regard the seated figure, striving for some measure of objectivity. I'd always known that Leonard McCoy was a very attractive man. I didn't exactly design him that way—I only specified general parameters for my counterfeit form, and got lucky in the draw. But it was nonetheless true, and I'd gotten used to the advantage.

Draco Malfoy is another matter entirely, though. From the outside, like this, I can see the fluid strength that underlies the at first glance unimpressive frame. The monochromatic theme of platinum hair, porcelain skin, and gray eyes currently gone stormcloud dark means that there's nothing to distract an observer from the delicate angularity that delineates him. The sharp, clean lines are softened only by those eyes and the top-heavy bow of his mouth. I can admit that there's a certain elegance to the overall effect, but it's an uneasy beauty, too striking and unexpected to be comforting. His very presence is different from Leonard McCoy's, and bound to affect others differently as a result.

I take a bracing breath and reach for the phantom, fingertips twitching short of the mark for a bare second before my skin touches his.

It's like plunging into ice water, a visceral shock, and I gasp, momentarily disoriented. I shakily bury my face in my hands, elbows propped on my knees, until my breath comes evenly again. Then I gather my fleeting determination and straighten my shoulders, letting my hands drop to hang loosely between my thighs.

I'm seated on the edge of the bed. Jim kneels on the floor in front of me, worried and wary.

"Bones?" he asks, eyes raking over my face. I nod. To my shame, I find myself unable to meet those eyes after all, and I turn my head away.

He presses gentle but sure fingers against my jaw until I submit to the silent order to face him again. His fingertips trace the plane of my cheekbone, the straight line of my brow. They circle the outline of my lips, a fleeting suggestion of touch, and there's something like wonder in his eyes.

"How old were you?" he asks, gentle and damned near reverent. I have to close my eyes to answer him.

"He..." I stop and swallow hard before beginning again. " _I_. Was twenty-eight." I open my eyes to meet his again. "Just a few weeks after this, you and I met on a 'Fleet shuttle in Riverside."

He nods, seemingly unsurprised, letting his hands slide lower to caress my shoulders and come to rest on my upper arms. "You've put on a fair amount of muscle since then," he notes, idly kneading my biceps. "Though it's built leaner on your real frame." I grimace, belatedly recalling that he's seen more of my current appearance than I have, albeit laid out unconscious on a biobed.

He stands, extending a hand to me. When I don't take it he frowns and asks, "What's wrong?"

I feel myself blush hotly—yet _another_ thing to hate about being Draco Malfoy—and mutter, "You're taller than me, now."

Jim actually laughs at that, damn him, and braces his hands under my elbows to drag me bodily to my feet. "It's not by that much," he notes, eyes dancing, and I scowl at him. He laughs again, this time delighted. "There you are! I knew you were in there." He sobers suddenly, gaze holding mine with soft realization.

"I see you, Bones. You're still yourself. Is that what you needed to know?"

My heart slams a skipped beat. "Yes," I say, or try to; my lips move soundlessly. I clear the lump from my throat and try again. "Yes."

I'm four inches shorter than I was last time we stood side-by-side like this. Three inches shorter than Jim, now. He tips my chin upward and kisses me as though he's done it a million times.

This time, I kiss him back.

He pulls back after a long moment, smiling softly. "What's next, then?"

I turn away from him, but only to open the beside drawer. I resume my seat on the bed, patting the comforter to invite him to join me. When he does, I place the two objects I've extracted on top of the worn polyfiber between us. He reaches for one of them, then hesitates and looks to me for permission. I nod, and he picks it up.

It's a slim rod of polished dark wood, not quite a foot long, with a plain black grip at one end. He turns it over in his hands a few times before looking at me again.

"You had this with you after everything went to hell," he notes carefully, and I nod again. "We found it near you, in Scotty's office. I have it now." My relief must be glaringly obvious, because he smiles reassuringly at me. "It's important, then?"

"Yes," I say firmly. "I need you to bring it, and this," I tap the chipped varnish of the plain wooden box that sits between us in emphasis, "to medical as soon as you can.”

"That box you keep in the back of your closet? But it doesn't open," Jim objects, puzzled.

I give him a hard look. "Do I even want to know when or why you decided to rummage through my personal belongings?" I ask.

He gives me his most charming smile. "Probably not?" he offers. I roll my eyes, but decide to let it go. For now.

"Bring them to the medbay," I reiterate. "Then comes the hard part." He nods seriously, and I continue,"You're going to have to convince Geoff to take me off of whatever drugs he has me on. Then, when my system's clear, he needs to hit me with the absolute strongest dose of stimulants that my physical condition will tolerate."

Jim blinks at me. "That sounds... really risky," he says, slowly.

"Yes." I don't hedge or soft-pedal it, and for a moment he looks horrified.

"There's really no other way?"

"No." I sigh, pinching the bridge my nose. "I know what's wrong with me, Jim. I've treated it before, in others. Others like me." He nods tightly, visibly restraining his questions. "The compound that I need is in that box, and I'm the only one who can open it. There's no other way." I shake my head, mouth pressed tight. "Geoff is going to fight you every step of the way, and rightfully so." My second-in-command is scrupulously conscientious, and I respect that about him. I don't relish challenging his ethics like this, but..."You have to convince him."

I meet Jim's eyes grimly, and say what I have to. "You have a couple of days, at most. Without this treatment, I _will_ die."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this chapter for... a while now, and I'm tired of debating with myself about it. So, here it is. (washes hands) Now that I'm committed, maybe I'll actually get the next part written.

Jim is pale in the wake of my declaration, his expression pinched. "Isn't there anything at all that you can tell me? _Anything_ to help me convince him?" he begs. Jim, begging; it's not natural, not comfortable, and I crumble immediately, exhaling slowly and thinking quickly.

"The universe is composed of varying forms of energy, yes?" I begin, struggling to compose an explanation even as I speak the words. He nods, though clearly baffled as to what this has to do with anything. "So. It's hypothetically possible that there are energies our technology hasn't yet detected. Can you agree with that?" I ask, a bit wary.

"Sure," he says. "I'd be surprised if there weren't, really."

I nod, marginally relieved. "Right. So, one of those undetected forms of energy. For lack of a better word, let's call it magic," I continue. He mouths the word after me, both brows creeping upward. I forge on. "Now, let's say that, hypothetically, there's a subset of _Homo sapiens_ with the genetic ability to detect and manipulate this magical energy. Just like psi-sensitivity, really; and like the psi-sensitive, for most of humanity's history, the only way they could survive was by hiding what they were." I pause, smiling humorlessly. "The only practical difference between them and the psi-sensitives, in fact, is that there are more of them, they're better organized, and unlike the psychics, they're still hiding."

Jim's expression is completely unreadable _._ "There's nothing hypothetical about those hypotheticals, is there," he says flatly.

"No," I admit. My smile twists from humorless to sardonic. "Not quite the explanation you were expecting, huh?"

"I don't actually know _what_ I was expecting, but... no." I sit in silent witness to his mental scramble, waiting helplessly for the conclusion that will determine everything that happens from this moment forward. He starts to say something but decides against it, and we sit in silence for another long minute.

"So you're a... magician?" he finally asks, still blank with shock.

"Wizard," I correct, and he makes a face at me. I make one right back. "Don't look at me, I didn't choose the terminology." Somehow, the ridiculous exchange helps him regain his mental footing; I can see him relaxing, actually processing and considering the information.

"So, what happened when that pirate... attacked you." He stumbles over the words, just a little. We both glance briefly at my left hand, and just as quickly away. "What happened after. That was magic?"

I nod. "Raw magic, raging completely out of control. That's why the ship's sensors didn't detect anything. Though I suspect you probably felt something," I don't quite ask. He nods, a wry look on his face, and I grimace apologetically. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Does that sort of thing happen often?" he asks, then shakes his head at himself. "No, of course it doesn't. You'd never have managed to stay hidden this long."

"No, that was pretty much a once-in-a-lifetime shuttle wreck of circumstances," I say drily, then mutter, "Thank fucking Merlin."

" _Merlin_?" Jim snickers. I give him the finger.

He considers everything for a moment more, and I watch as the levity drains away again. "So, this magical... explosion. It hurt you? That's why you're unconscious?"

"Yes, and no." He gives me an exasperated look, and I make a calming hand motion. "The explosion - perfectly apt, by the way - is what caused the burns." He nods. "But it only indirectly led to the coma." I pause to reorder my thoughts. "Okay. So you know how psychics are susceptible to any number of conditions that psi-nulls aren't, because of the differences in their neural architecture?" Another nod. "Wizards have the same problem. Only, it's not our minds that are different. It's our... metabolisms, I suppose is most nearly accurate."

I feel my eyes go distant, my voice soften. "Magic... we don't just interact with it differently than non-magical folks do, Jim. It's integrated into our biology in a completely different way, right down to our cellular processes. We can't function without it, not even at the most basic level."

Jim's eyes are wide. "That's why you're dying," he whispers. "The explosion drained your magic." I try very hard to school my thoughts from my expression, but he's watching me like a hawk.

"Oh, no you don't," he snaps. "You're going to tell me whatever it is you just decided _not_ to tell me. Now." It's a definite order, and I can't hide a wince.

"The explosion itself isn't what drained me," I admit, my eyes fastened on the nearest corner. "I tapped out my magical core when I contained and redirected it."

Jim gives me a disbelieving look. "Why would you even do that, then?" he asks.

"Mostly to keep it from blowing up the ship. Magic and electricity tend to mix violently without supervision." Jim makes a strangled noise, and I shrug, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a country mile. "My mess, my responsibility."

I must look as miserable as I suddenly feel, because Jim sighs and slides across the mattress, wrapping one arm around me and tucking my head against his shoulder. "So, you wiped out your magic to save the ship, and it's slowly killing you," he clarifies, and I nod against him.

"Under normal circumstances, my body would be able to regenerate its reserves from even a huge expenditure of magic on its own," I say softly, trying not to cling to his warmth. The exhaustion is creeping up on me again, even here. "But this... these were not normal circumstances."

"Understatement," Jim mutters, and I snort a halfhearted laugh.

"Yeah. I have a... medication that can stimulate the process, but..."

"But it's in that box. Which only you can open. With your freaking magic wand." He sounds so disgruntled that this time I do laugh.

"Got it in one." We sit for a moment, huddled close, and I can tell we're running out of time. The memory is falling to tatters around us.

"See you on the other side, Jim," I say. _I trust you_ , I mean.

He presses a light kiss against my forehead, and then he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of 1/15/15, the author must beg the reader's forgiveness in announcing that Verisimilitude will end here for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, the Muse sold the author's soul to another fandom while the author's back was turned...


End file.
